


Boyfriend

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: (pretty minor but there is dry heaving), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Bonding Over Retrograde Amnesia, College, Emetophobia, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 10:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Based on this post by tumblr user chenetic:Imagine Eddie being harrassed by someone at a party who can’t take a hint until Richie comes over and wraps an arm around his waist and says “sorry babe, they don’t have the drink you like here, who’s this?” and Eddie plays along until the person leaves and Eddie thanks him and asks for his name but Richie just says playfully, “you don’t know your boyfriend’s name?” and all through the night Richie follows him around as if they didn’t literally just meet.(In which Richie and Eddie don't remember that they know each other, when they meet at a college party)





	Boyfriend

A girl from Richie's trig class had told him about the party, and he'd realized a little too late that she asked him because she likes him, he's never keyed into that. He doesn't know how to flirt. He doesn't know how to tell when people are flirting with him. He doesn't remember basically his whole-ass childhood except for a few little flashes and he spends as much time wishing he didn't remember those as he spends wishing he could remember any of the rest.

He remembers he was the gay kid in a small town and he remembers he got shit for it and what else does he really need to know? He remembers a hallway full of jeering kids and he remembers graffiti and he remembers an older boy threatening him, things that get jumbled up in nightmares he mostly doesn't remember, either, but the stuff in his nightmares that aren't memory, at least those can't hurt him in the real world. There's no such thing as werewolves, and in the real world clowns are just people in costume who want to make people laugh, so even though they severely creep him out, there's like a brotherhood there. He just wants to make people laugh. He'd never dress up as a fucking clown to do it, because come on, how creepy? But at heart, it's a profession he can respect, sort of. It involves serious skills he can respect. It's just the faces and costumes and shit that he can't believe more people don't find scary. Maybe his parents let him watch Killer Clowns From Outer Space when he was twelve or something and he doesn't remember that but the trauma remains.

A lot of trauma remains, he thinks, even when he doesn't remember. Because he's going to a party where he's going to dance with a girl from his trig class, and maybe make out with her, and then make up a reason why he can't be in a relationship right now before they can go too far, and he'll say he doesn't want to take advantage of her if she's expecting more from him so it would be wrong to feel her up, and she'll think he's a good guy for not fucking her at a party while they're tipsy and then blowing her off the next day even if she'd have let him, and the disappointment will fade and she'll find someone better and he'll say he can't be tied down, and everyone will know he kissed her at a party so no one will think-- no one will know-- He has a fresh start. He was the gay kid in a small town and then his parents moved and he was the weird kid with no memories for just a couple years in high school-- where he was still the gay kid but he was such a freak no one had to come up with any rumors about that, amnesia was so novel.

So he goes to this party and he has a plan that involves making out with a girl he kind of knows, but he finds himself avoiding her instead, his stomach churning, and he knows he has a nervous stomach but he really doesn't want to throw up at a party where he doesn't really know anyone well but everyone seems cool, so he grabs a drink and he tells himself to breathe.

Any hopes that a drink will help him calm down are quickly dashed-- raising it to his mouth without even drinking any just makes him feel sicker. But holding it makes him look like he belongs at a party and is having a good time. All he has to do is hold a drink and tell himself he's having a good time and he wants to be here and maybe he can make it true. Maybe he just has to believe hard enough. And maybe he can connect to someone, make a friend. People like him, college is great in terms of people liking him, people think he's funny and they invite him to parties and they... they like him, yeah, but he doesn't know anyone he'd call to move a couch. That's the thing, he doesn't have Real Friends, because he has a huge fucking hole in his life so there's nothing he can bond with people over. Did he go to the same summer camp as Jodie from stagecraft class? Was he ever a boy scout like Leon in his intro to psych? Did he play any sports or instruments, join any clubs, have any fucking hobbies he could talk to someone about? His parents don't even know, really. When last he asked, his mother just said he was always off, playing in the woods she thought. His father said he was a funny kid, did impressions of people on TV, but they don't remember him talking about his life much. By the time he thought he could just ask them what he was like, the past had grown fuzzy for them, too.

But tonight he's at a party and he has a drink in his hand and he is going to have a good time and connect with people, maybe over music or something, and everyone is going to see him kiss a girl, and it's going to be good.

And then he sees a guy who is definitely not having a good time.

He's beautiful, is the thing. Short, twink-y little preppy kid, wearing fucking... pastel green chino shorts, and his legs are perfect, and he's being crowded against the wall by a guy who clearly can't take a hint, who keeps reaching over and touching him, his arm and his waist and then his face, and Richie sees the boy flinch, and if he's ever been more terrified than he is right now, he doesn't remember it, but Richie marches right over, sliding himself into the scant space between the two.

"Hey, babe, found you. I couldn't find your favorite over with the drinks, you got a second choice? Oh-- hey. You have classes with this guy?"

"Not really." The boy swallows. Up close, Richie is struck by his doe eyes, the shape of his lips, the soft freckles that dust his face and arms. He reaches out and takes Richie's arm, settling close to his side. "We just met."

And the other guy takes a hint-- fuck him for not taking a hint when he thought the boy in the shorts was single, but disappearing in a hurry once there's a six foot tall boyfriend in evidence, but at least he's gone now. Richie gives the boy a little more space, and his heart is pounding way too hard and his stomach is right back to anxious as ever, but he's alive, and he's already here, and he's pretended to be a guy's boyfriend and nothing bad happened, would anything bad happen if he just talked to a boy he likes? A boy who lets go of his arm but stays close, facing him now.

"Hi." He smiles, nervous-- beyond nervous, but they both are. "You okay?"

"Thanks to you. Um-- thank you, really. You just saved me from a business major."

"Oh, those guys are all assholes."

"I'm also a business major." He says, and for a moment Richie thinks he might as well throw up and ruin things completely, because he's definitely stepped in it, and then the boy's scowl splits into a grin and he laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound Richie has ever heard, it tugs at things inside him that he never even knew were there. "No, can you imagine? I mean, my mother wanted me to be, but... Anyway, um. I'm Eddie. And you are?"

"You don't know your own boyfriend's name?" Richie gasps, his free hand flying to his chest.

"Dick."

"Got it in one." He winks. "Although I usually go by Richie. Still, I'm going to give you the points for that. Do you, um... Not in a-- But like, do you want to get some air? And like... get away from the path of any other oncoming business majors? I can snag you a drink for real if you want."

"I can't drink, I have a medical condition. I mean, I have to take pills, so I can't--"

"There's like cans of coke and shit, if you want. Definitely no booze."

Eddie nods slowly, walking close by Richie's side, and they swing by the table with the drinks and snacks, where Eddie is content enough with a sealed soft drink but refuses to take any food, citing his need to know every ingredient in anything that goes into his body. Richie is pretty sure he shouldn't find that cute. He shouldn't find _Eddie_ cute, but here he is. He is doing the opposite of making out with a girl at a party and he feels a swirling mix of fear and relief, the balance shifting from moment to moment. He hadn't _wanted _to kiss a girl at all, he's glad he doesn't have to kiss a girl, he's glad he doesn't have to hurt her even a little bit, but everyone's seen him go up to this guy like they're together and everyone knows now, the dirty little secret he's struggled to keep literally longer than he can remember.

There are smokers on the patio, and Richie feels a tug to join them even though he doesn't smoke. Could he have smoked at age fifteen without his parents knowing, and just accidentally gone cold turkey when he lost his memory? Yeah, it was the eighties, but still... Eddie coughs and pulls his polo shirt up over his nose, brow drawn into a scowl, so Richie steers him upwind. Out at the far end of the yard there's a little bench by some neglected roses, and Eddie emerges from inside his shirt to hastily take a swig of his Pepsi, still scowling at the smokers.

"There should be a law about not fucking smoking by the door. At least in this state you can't smoke in restaurants now. Smoking and no smoking sections are a _joke_, it's all the same air. I already have asthma, I don't need fucking cancer." He rants, digging out an inhaler from his pocket, hand shaking.

Richie helps him with it, moving on instinct, holding it steady and pressing down for Eddie when his hands shake, watching him breathe it in and hold it. It feels natural, and he fights the urge to run his fingers through Eddie's hair as well, to wrap an arm around him. He's never had any problem pushing down on his desires before, he's seen lots of cute boys, sat close beside them in classes, felt the brush of warm, rough fingers when loaning a pencil or passing down a quiz. He's wanted, he's even _burned_ with the desire to feel a boy's lips on his own, a boy's hands on his body, a boy's body against his, but he's never felt what he feels with Eddie. He's sick with it, and he can't make himself pull away.

Eddie doesn't sit down, giving the bench a distrustful look, and to be fair, he's wearing shorts and the bench looks a little rough. Richie sets his drink down for a second so that he can take his jacket off, spreading it on the seat next to his, and Eddie smiles and sits. Glances away briefly and then back to Richie as he whispers a 'thanks'.

"Sure thing, spitfire. Where was this guy when you were dealing with the business major?" He teases, hoping his voice remains even. "You could have told him off."

"I-- I don't know." He looks down. It's too dark to know if he's blushing, but Richie imagines he is, as he watches him fidget. "It's different. I mean... It's-- I don't know. It's not like I'm yelling _at_ them. And even if I was, it would be different. It's just... some guys, I don't-- Some guys are cool and other guys, like... rich assholes whose daddies paid for them to go and be business majors, no one ever tells them no, let alone what total ballsacks they are as human beings."

"Oh." Richie says. It feels inadequate. "Guys like that, um, don't come up to me."

"Oh. Well-- you're not missing out."

"Yeah. Guess I'm just not as cute as you." He pinches Eddie's cheek, laughing when Eddie swats him away. "What? Don't I get to call my boyfriend cute?"

"You're an asshole." Eddie says, but he's sitting even closer when he's done squirming and smacking at him. "I mean-- but you're not like... a business major asshole."

"Theater major asshole." Richie nods. "Different flavor of asshole completely."

"Gross. Don't make me think about the flavor of an asshole."

Richie's insides tie themselves in knots and he doesn't say any of the things that pop into his head, the overwhelming question of whether Eddie would be opposed to _being_ tasted or just opposed to doing the tasting, and he's never fantasized about _that_, exactly, but no time like the present to discover there are even more things in heaven and earth than were previously dreamt of in his philosophy. He's definitely gross and Eddie should definitely push him away. He wants too many things, he knows he does. He wants to put his hands all over Eddie's legs and he wants to push him against the wall and kiss him, which is even worse than what the business major did to him, and he wants to put his tongue basically everywhere, and Eddie won't even eat chips and dip that are in open bowls at a party so he probably does not want to have anything to do with Richie's mouth. The word _trashmouth_ pops into his head, and he doesn't know where it comes from, but he figures it's probably pretty accurate.

"Okay." He says, forcing himself to just keep cool, because at least Eddie is talking to him and at least maybe they could be friends, if he doesn't blow it, and then he could just be around him. He jerks a thumb over at the group clustered by the back door. "But does an asshole taste better or worse than making out with a smoker?"

"Fuck you." Eddie laughs and shoves at his shoulder. "I would literally die before putting my tongue in either."

"Okay, okay. Cool it, spitfire. You know, when we started this relationship, I didn't think I'd have to worry about you shoving me off a bench."

"I'm not going to shove you off the bench, dude, you're like... so much bigger than me." Eddie rolls his eyes, and Richie is struck by how true that is, how he could wrap his hands around Eddie's waist, his wrists, how he could cover so much ground with him, how much of his narrow chest a single spread hand could encompass, how he could cup his face, how he could probably pick him up, maybe even carry him, how such a sweet, small guy would look in his bed, how...

How utterly fucked he is, because he thinks everything about Eddie is perfect, down to the shoving and the ranting and the insane dietary restrictions.

"Are you even gay?" Eddie continues, when Richie doesn't jump in to say anything else about assholes or play-fighting or-- well, anything. And he keeps talking, something about how he appreciates the rescue either way and so on, but the blood is pounding in Richie's head and he doesn't hear.

He closes his mouth so fast he bites down hard on the inside of his bottom lip and then his drink goes flying off into the bushes and he's clapping a hand over his mouth muttering 'ow fuck' over and over again right up until he feels the bile rising. He turns away quickly, before anything can come up on him, and it burns his throat a little but he doesn't lose the last thing he ate-- maybe because he doesn't remember the last thing he ate.

"Okay, that's... not the answer I expected." Eddie says, and he sounds _disgusted_, and Richie really can't blame him. He looks up, his own eyes wide, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, and Eddie looks ready to bolt, and Richie just wants to _die_. "If I leave you here for a minute are you going to pass out or anything?"

Richie doesn't know, but he's afraid the answer is probably no.

"Shit." Eddie sighs, running a hand through his hair. He's pacing in front of the bench, avoiding the side where Richie's left a little puddle of bile in the dying grass. "Shit shit shit... Okay-- No, no, that's bad-- Okay, okay. Do not move, just fucking try to breathe, okay, okay? And I'll-- shit-- okay? I'll be back."

Richie opens his mouth, then closes it. Eddie pulls his shirt up over his nose again and _runs_ back into the house, but when he comes back he's carrying a bottle of water and something wrapped in a napkin that he sets on the bench for the time being. He takes a puff off his inhaler and then makes sure he has Richie's attention, as he cracks the seal and unscrews the cap.

"Drink." He orders, tilting it to Richie's lips. "Rinse your mouth out."

He does as he's told, spits a mouthful of water out into the grass where he'd not-quite thrown up before. Eddie makes him drink slowly, little sips between breaths he has to struggle to keep even, and then he pulls a tissue out of his pocket and dries Richie's face-- the tears he hadn't realized he was crying, then the dribble of hopefully just water down his chin, before he closes the used tissue up in a zip-top baggie and sanitizes his hands with anti-bacterial gel.

"You carry all that shit in your pockets?" Richie croaks.

"When I don't have my bag with me." He shrugs. "I mean, I got the tissue from inside the house, and thank God they keep a box out, you know I got invited to a party once and instead of a box of tissues they had a roll of toilet paper sitting on the coffee table? I walked straight out of that house and I will never go back. Animals."

Richie chuckles weakly. Eddie unwraps the napkin from around a handful of water crackers, which Richie assumes were named based on just how bland they are if you don't slap a bunch of cheese on them.

"Here. This will help settle your stomach." Eddie gestures to them. "Just-- go slow. I really don't want you to blow chunks. You-- you don't have to tell me, if you are. I just... I mean, you came up to me."

"Yeah, that guy was... like, touching you. You looked like you were freaking out a little."

"Yeah. I just mean-- You reacted _really_ badly to me asking if you were gay, okay? Like, normally if you ask a guy if he's gay and he has a full-on freakout, then he's probably, like, dangerous to be around." Eddie's hands twist together as he talks, and he doesn't look at Richie. "But you came up to me, and pretended to be my boyfriend to get that guy to leave me alone, so I don't think you're... you know, a homophobe."

"No, I'm not!"

"I freaked out, too." He sits down at last, glances over to Richie. "When I first-- when I remember first noticing a boy. My mother always told me it was dirty. And, um... in case you haven't noticed, dirt and I--"

"I mean I noticed the whole sanitizer routine, yeah."

"Sick. She told me men like that were sick, and they made other people sick, and I'd get sick if I ever... let a boy like that..." Eddie shrugs, and he's not twisting his hands together anymore, but they're balled into tight fists resting against his knees. "And there wasn't a cure, and my pills couldn't help me, if-- Sometimes I thought she meant, you know, AIDS. And sometimes I thought she just meant being this way was a disease. Mostly I think she meant both. Maybe she knows and that's why she tried so hard to scare me straight, or maybe she doesn't and she's just like that. I mean she is just like that, she's a fucking bigot, but..."

He shrugs again, blowing out a sigh.

"It's not like that. My, um... my folks never talk about that stuff. Not like that. I think I got beat up for being a-- When I was a kid, I think I got beat up once. Hell, maybe I got beat up every day, I don't remember. Everything before age sixteen is a blur at best and most of it's a black hole, but I get flashes sometimes. Seeing my name written on a wall somewhere, with a few _choice_ words. A big guy screaming in my face, calling me some of those choice words. I don't... I don't want people to think-- well, know, I guess. It's knowing, if they're right. I don't want to be another fucking... obituary nobody cares enough about because no one feels bad about-- about someone like me turning up dead, because I probably hit on the wrong person and so I was asking for it, or I just wasn't quiet enough so I was still asking for it, so-- and then even my family wouldn't-- and then I'd just be gone and everyone would forget about me as quickly as possible, and it wouldn't matter anyway, because I already forgot myself, so--"

Eddie's hand lands on Richie's arm, and when he looks up, it's to see just how wide Eddie's eyes are, some unreadable thing in his expression. Fear, too, but it's second to something enormous that Richie can't name.

"Sorry." He says. "You probably don't need to hear me worrying about all that shit, too."

"You don't remember your childhood?"

"... That's the part you're taking away from this?"

"I don't remember mine." He says, and hands Richie the water bottle again.

Richie presses it to his face first, before taking another careful couple of sips. "Welcome to the shittiest club to be a part of, I guess."

"I don't know. Company's not bad."

"A guy with your standards for air quality and food safety and fucking snot rag availability, and _I_ meet your standard for company? After I threw up on you?"

"Actually, you turned to the side to _avoid_ throwing up on me. Anyway, you're my boyfriend, so I have to cut you a little slack." He teases, nudging gently at Richie. "You make me laugh. I think you're really good company when you're not in the middle of a panic attack. And I don't know anyone else with retrograde amnesia, so..."

"So it makes it really hard to bond with people, right?" Richie laughs-- a little weakly, but finally, he thinks, someone gets it. "I don't know what my favorite cartoons were! I don't know what I even did as a kid. Hung out in the woods and didn't talk about my life to my parents, apparently."

"Had a bunch of no-good friends I'm better off without, according to my mother." Eddie laughs too, curls in towards him, setting off giddy sparks through Richie's brain. "Why don't we start over? What do you want to have done as a kid?"

"I don't know. Played the guitar, maybe, or... gotten the high score on Street Fighter. Built a treehouse. What about you? What do you wish you did as a kid?"

"Rode a bike. Flew a kite. Had a birthday party in a bowling alley." Eddie shrugs a little, and then his eyes meet Richie's, wide and dark through soft lashes. "Kissed a boy."

"I-- I know a place that rents bikes. If-- if you want to go. If you don't know how, then... you could learn. We could both-- Go to the park, with bikes. Or a kite. Find a bowling alley that has an arcade." His stomach twists, and he tells himself he is _not_ going to be sick again. "Maybe you could come over sometime when my roommate is out and we can... I dunno. Watch cartoons and eat mac and cheese and chicken nuggets and raw cookie dough."

"That's how you get salmonella. My mother would _never_ have let me eat like that."

"Well that's why you have to do it over at my place, my parents wouldn't have given a shit." Richie laughs. "If you come over, you can cross kissing a boy off your list."

"Yeah, okay." Eddie smiles. "I mean, since you _are_ my boyfriend. If you take me out to go rent bikes, then... I'll come over and we can... kiss."

There's something in the way he says it that Richie can't wrap his head around, like Eddie could mean anything from a soft, experimental peck while lying on the floor in front of the TV, to making out, to... well. Anything.

"I could be. Your boyfriend." He says, fighting the tightness in his chest and the roiling in his gut and the thundering in his head. "Your real boyfriend."

"Good." Eddie takes his hand, their fingers slotting together like they were always meant to fit. "Because I don't kiss just any boys."

"No business majors, for a start."

"No business majors." He laughs, and the world seems just a little bit more right.


End file.
